by Tom Barber
Nate’s killer.
Before the two men could say anything more, the door suddenly opened and 3rd Grade Detective Lisa Marquez walked in, her eyes red and a fierce look of determination on her face. She and Josh were very close; she’d been shot at the end of last year during an operation, along with Shepherd, and Josh and his wife had always been on hand to help her through her rehab.
Closing the door behind her, she turned and looked at Shepherd and Archer in silence for a moment, three members of the five-person team reunited.
‘How is he?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Not good. There are two squad cars at his house. FBI requested that they keep him there until further notice.’
‘What?’ Archer said.
‘They’re worried he could go after the suspect. Especially now he knows his name.’
‘He just lost his son and now he’s under house arrest?’
‘It’s for his own protection. Feds don’t want any more bodies and the state he’s in right now, Josh could kill with his bare hands.’ She looked at Shepherd. ‘Michelle asked me to leave. Said she doesn’t want to see any of us right now. They just want some time alone.’
She jerked her head towards the Conference Room next door.
‘Feds just turned me away too. Said it’s their case and they want us to stay out of this.’
‘Did you see who the suspect is?’ Shepherd asked her.
She nodded. ‘A former sniper. No-one knows better than those guys how to go to ground and disappear. Finding him isn’t going to be as easy as the FBI seem to think it is.’
‘Archer knows him.’
Marquez stared. ‘What?’
‘We’ll explain once we’re outside,’ Shepherd said, closing the file. ‘Get together what you need. We’re out of here.’
‘We’re just gonna leave it to the FBI?’ Marquez said.
Shepherd shook his head.
‘We’re going to track down that son of a bitch ourselves.’
ELEVEN
Archer’s old apartment in Astoria had been badly damaged towards the end of last year after some perps from an operation had ambushed him at home. Understandably, neither he or Vargas had been too keen to keep living there so they’d moved four blocks away to 34th Street, a stone’s throw from the N/Q subway.
With Alice and Isabel already on vacation, the place was unoccupied. Having driven to the apartment straight from the Counter-Terrorism Bureau, Archer, Marquez and Shepherd spread the files they’d brought with them out on the coffee table in the sitting room. The three of them had put all conversation on ice until they were alone. This was the FBI’s investigation, not the NYPD’s, and if someone overheard the three detectives discussing what they were planning to do next, it could land all of them in serious trouble.
As he and Marquez sat on the sofa, Shepherd remaining on his feet, Archer picked up a brown folder belonging to the first victim of the three rifle shootings.
‘Marcia Barrera,’ he read, looking at the driving licence photo of an attractive Latina woman. ‘Born just outside Portland, twenty seven years old. Worked as a driver for FedEx there for the past five months. Shot and killed by a 20mm round as she started her afternoon round. Crime-scene analysis showed evidence of an extreme distance shot over the Fore River.’
‘Was she was driving her truck at the time?’ Marquez said.
Shepherd nodded, having previously read the file.
‘Travelling at forty miles an hour. Man in a car behind her was on his way to work; said a shop window about twenty yards to his right was suddenly smashed out and the FedEx truck in front of him veered to the side before rolling to a stop. He pushed his horn a few times, stepped out to see what was going on and found the woman slumped across the passenger seat. Smashed store window was from a 20 mm round that went through her head. Line of fire was established but no shell casing was ever found and no witnesses. Forensics estimate it was at least a thousand yarder.’
Turning the page, Archer glanced at her background. ‘Computer Science major at Penn State. Did a follow-up programme at George Washington University in D.C.’
He frowned.
‘She graduated when she was twenty two, five years ago. No work history for all that time and then she suddenly starts driving delivery trucks?’
‘Economy’s tough right now,’ Shepherd replied, shrugging. ‘Maybe she couldn’t find a job?’
‘With qualifications like these?’
‘Maybe she realised she wanted to do something else.’
Looking at the file for a bit longer, Archer dropped Marcia Barrera’s stapled bio back onto the table and picked up the file belonging to the second victim. He looked at the driving licence photo of an African American teenager, the young man murdered in Boston.
‘Tyron Scrace,’ he read. ‘Born Anacostia, Washington D.C. Mother abandoned him soon after birth, father unknown. Eighteen years old at time of death, Harvard Student and community worker.’
‘From abandoned to Harvard,’ Marquez noted. ‘Talk about a turnaround. Smart kid.’
‘Fostered until he was eight when foster parents became his legal guardians. Shot and killed when he was helping out at a fundraiser near the Charlestown Bridge.’
He scanned the witness statements and notes made at the scene.
‘A co-worker said he was coming back from a trip to a 7/11 to get some water when he was hit. No shell casing found, single shot to the head, plenty of people there to see it. All of them say the shot came out of nowhere; no further information. According to these notes, they were all pretty traumatised and confused.’
‘Understandably,’ Marquez said.
Archer looked at Shepherd. ‘So this kid was on a bike too when he took the round?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘And another long range hit.’
With Barrera and Scrace’s files placed to one side, there was just one left. The three of them looked at it for a moment; then Archer picked it up.
‘Nathan Blake,’ he said. ‘Fourteen years old, son of Joshua and Michelle, student at Chelsea High.’
He paused.
‘Shot while cycling along the East River Highway. Single 20mm round to the chest. Killed instantly.’
They all knew the facts and Archer had seen the body. None of them needed to focus anymore on his file. Archer closed it and put it down; Shepherd stayed silent as Marquez rose, muttering something in Spanish.
‘A delivery truck driver, a Harvard student doing community service and the son of an NYPD Counter-Terrorism Bureau detective,’ she said. ‘This makes no sense. Where’s the link between these people?’
‘All three were different ethnicity to Ledger,’ Shepherd said, looking at Archer. ‘You ever get a hint he was racist?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Did he know Josh?’
He shook his head. ’I don’t think so. Josh never mentioned him, or vice versa.’
‘So where the hell is the link?’ Marquez said.
Shepherd withdrew his cell phone and called a number, putting the phone on speaker and placing it on the table. ‘Let’s see if CSU pulled anything useful from the apartment.’
A voice answered after four rings. ‘Freeman.’
‘Joe, it’s Shepherd, from Counter-Terrorism,’ he replied. ‘You’re on speaker with two of my detectives; Sam Archer and Lisa Marquez. Did any of your people make it over to Harry Ledger’s place?’
‘That was all FBI, I’m afraid. Now an NYPD cop is the lead suspect they won’t let us anywhere near it.’
Marquez swore. ‘Suddenly they can’t trust us?’
‘Protocol, apparently. It’s bullshit.’
‘Any way round this, Joe?’ Shepherd asked. Archer knew there was a reason Shepherd had called this particular investigator, who they’d worked with in the past. He had a reputation for knowing the details of pretty much any investigation that came through their facility.
‘This conversation never happened right?’
‘Cor
rect.’
‘I called a friend of mine at the FBI’s lab here in New York who owes me a favour. He’s keeping me posted.’
‘What’s he saying?’
‘The Fed forensic team found a load of empty OxyContin capsules at Ledger’s place, and his fingerprints were all over them.’
‘Oxy,’ Archer muttered. ‘An opioid pain reliever.’
‘Strong one too. Eight capsules were found. Each had x30 on the label but all of them were empty. 80 mg strength, recommended twice a day usage, and they weren’t prescription either; bought illegally, judging by the different names on the bottles.’
‘That’s a shitload of painkillers,’ Marquez said.
‘And the capsules were all in date, so he’s been housing them recently. No doctor would prescribe that quantity to anyone, let alone a serving police officer.’
‘Eight capsules?’ Shepherd repeated. ‘Was he having them for breakfast?’
‘That’s not all. A pool of vomit on Ledger’s bed had some undigested pills in it. The FBI lab team tested them, and the results came in twenty minutes ago. Know how I said the capsules were all 80mg strength?’
‘Yeah.’
‘These came back as 160mg, which were discontinued a while back for being so strong. 160mg Oxy doesn’t just fall into your lap and you would never take that many of that powerful a dosage. Not unless you wanted to kill yourself.’
‘He tried to commit suicide,’ Marquez said.
‘But puked the pills back up on the bed,’ Archer said. ‘Which saved his life.’
‘What it looks like, yes.’
‘Think he changed his mind?’ Marquez asked.
‘It’s possible,’ Shepherd said. ‘Two fingers down the throat could get those pills back up.’
‘I don’t think the puking was likely to be intentional. Our tox tests showed the batch was bad. They were mixed with something to bulk them out, but the toxicity levels were high and his body must have rejected them. But whether intentional or not, it saved his life. Either way, he’s been missing for seven hours, right?’
‘Correct,’ Shepherd said, checking his watch. ‘No-one’s seen him since his end of watch at Brooklyn South.’
‘If he doesn’t have any Oxy with him, he’s going to start feeling real bad pretty soon. Extreme agitation, muscle aches, abdominal cramping, nausea; all withdrawal symptoms I’d expect to see with an addiction as strong as this.’
‘What about the timing on the shootings?’ Shepherd asked. ‘Nate Blake was killed just before 4:30pm, and from what we’ve heard so far no-one can confirm seeing Ledger to provide an alibi?’
‘Like you said, he’s been working nights and his neighbour said he sleeps through the late morning and afternoons.’
‘Marcia Barrera and Tyron Scrace were both killed in the afternoon,’ Archer said. ‘If he supposedly sleeps late morning and afternoons, no-one would expect to see him then.’
‘Correct. My Bureau guy said that when they ran the plates on Ledger’s car through Inter-State cameras, they found the car passed out of New York State north on two occasions recently, yesterday and the day before. Thursday, he went all the way up to Maine and came back to New York in the early evening. Yesterday he went to Massachusetts. The timings align perfectly with the shootings.’
‘What about the rifle dumped at the apartment?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Cannon would be a more appropriate term. It’s made by a company called Rozio. Magazine-fed, 20mm, navy overcoat finish, fat suppressor on the end. Nearly seven feet long and fires a round the size of my index finger. For a model fresh off the line, you’re looking at twelve thousand dollars easy.’
‘Which he just left behind,’ Archer said. ‘Twelve grand isn’t chump change, especially on a cop’s pay.’
‘Maybe he worked a score before he left the army, or found something he could sell. Or a contact might have hooked him up.’
‘We got a serial number on the weapon we can trace?’ Marquez asked.
‘Filed off. But the ballistics matched up to the rounds retrieved in Portland and Boston; it’s the same gun that killed the first two victims, and Harry Ledger’s prints are all over it.’ Pause. ‘And there’s one more thing. Sure I don’t need to tell you guys this but anyway.’
‘Go on,’ Shepherd said.
‘Whoever did this is very, very good. Three successful shots at those distances and on a moving target could only be made by someone who really knows what they’re doing. A body hit from a round like this is a kill shot, but he hit two of the victims in the head.’
Archer, Shepherd and Marquez looked at each other.
‘A journeyman sure as hell didn’t fire that weapon. Harry Ledger was a sniper before he was a cop, and a very good one at that according to his record. I think he’s our man.’
‘Thanks, Joe,’ Shepherd said, looking at Archer. ‘Do me a favour and call back if anything comes through from your FBI contact.’
‘You got it.’
TWELVE
Ending the call, Shepherd looked at the other two. ‘We’ve got possible addiction, a record of post-traumatic stress and attempted suicide. Ledger works nights, has no squad partner and doesn’t live with anyone, so there’s no-one who can verify his movements. He could easily have driven up to Portland, killed Marcia Barrera, then hit Tyron in Boston the next day and Nate today.’
‘He’s got the skill, too,’ Marquez replied. ‘And can hide unusual behaviour. He managed to conceal an Oxy addiction from his fellow officers.’
She looked at Archer.
‘And from you when you guys hung out.’
Staying quiet, Archer closed his eyes, picturing Ledger on that rooftop where they found the shell casing. Using a range finder, reading the windage and density altitude, adjusting the scope accordingly.
Settling in behind the seven-foot long rifle; utilising breathing and pulse control techniques, the East River stretching out in front of him with Manhattan the other side.
Looking.
Waiting.
Seeing Nate cycling down the East River Highway. Sighting the fourteen year old boy, accounting for his speed, spindrift, wind and thermals. Exhaling slowly, emptying his lungs.
And squeezing the trigger between heartbeats.
Picking up the remote, he switched the television on and flicked to BBC America which was showing a real-time update of the manhunt. Ledger’s Department photo appeared on screen while a reporter gave as many details of the shootings as they had available, emphasising the fact that Harry Ledger was an NYPD police officer.
‘Oh shit,’ Shepherd said. ‘This isn’t good.’
Some protests had already started in Brooklyn and in Manhattan, the ticker saying the number of people on the streets was growing rapidly, expressing their outrage at the apparent police brutality, only inflamed by the spreading rumour that Ledger had been allowed to escape. It wasn’t the first time in recent memory such a thing had happened.
‘Any of them find him, it’ll be game over,’ Shepherd said. ‘They’ll kill him.’
‘The FBI are bound to find him soon,’ Marquez said. ‘He can’t hide forever.’
‘Don’t be so sure,’ Archer said. ‘If he makes it to somewhere like Pennsylvania, he could just vanish. That’s a lot of wilderness to cover. With his skills, he could definitely disappear.’
The other two didn’t reply.
‘So let’s think; what would we do, if this was our case?’ Archer said.
‘First thing would be study personality, patterns and get to know his associates,’ Marquez said. ‘Who he hangs out with, who his friends are, any relatives he might go to for help.’
‘He kept to himself, by all accounts,’ Shepherd said. ‘I checked with Brooklyn South. Most of them liked him over there, but said they didn’t really ever socialise off the clock.’
Archer nodded. ‘He’s a pretty solitary guy. But focused. Ideal qualities for a sniper.’
‘What about people he used to serve
with?’ Marquez asked. ‘Current, or veterans?’
‘There’s no-one from his old team to speak to. From what we can tell, they were all killed his last time out on that operation that went wrong in Kandahar.’
‘What about the V.A in D.C.?’ Archer asked. ‘He spent ten months there after he got back from deployment.’
‘I called them earlier,’ Shepherd said. ‘They wouldn’t give me much, but the people there spoke highly of him. Said he was a fighter. And he’s been through a hell of a lot. Apparently the four veterans he spent most of his recovery process with are dead too. Three committed suicide and one was killed in a road accident.’
‘Jesus,’ Marquez said. ‘No wonder he had trouble sleeping.’
‘OK, so friends and associates are out,’ Shepherd eventually said. ‘What next?’
‘Social media, GPS tracking and crime tip-lines,’ Archer said, looking at the TV screen. ‘Hoping people call in with suspected sightings or witness reports. Getting as many people as possible involved in the process and give the public a chance to help their community. Make them feel useful.’
‘He left his cell phone at his apartment,’ Shepherd said. ‘Means GPS is out. I’ve got Rach monitoring the 911 dispatch, FBI hotline, Twitter, Reddit and Facebook in case anyone posts a sighting.’
‘Does he have family anywhere?’ Marquez asked. ‘Someone he could run to who would help him out?’
‘None,’ Shepherd said. ‘He was care-homed from eight and doesn’t have any siblings. Foster-parents are long gone, same as his biological parents.’
They paused, looking at the television images of the search.
‘His face is out there now,’ Marquez said. ‘It’s gonna be a hell of a lot harder for him to disappear.’
‘He could already be off the beaten-track somewhere,’ Shepherd said. ‘Hiding out in the sticks.’
‘Or not,’ Archer said.
‘You think he’d risk staying somewhere populated?’ Marquez asked. ‘That’d be pretty tough.’
‘He’s trained to be invisible. Sometimes hiding in plain sight is the best option.’
‘And maybe he’s not done killing yet,’ Shepherd said quietly.
